Arthur and Alfred's Whiskey Lullaby
by Hydra no Mago
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, a successful author whom has lost his one true love. Alfred F. Jones, a typical uptown boy who has left his true love. Read both sides of how they decided to free themselves of their burden. (USUK/ AlfredXArthur / HetaliaHumanAU / Angst warning)
1. Arthur's Whiskey Lullaby

**Hullo all! This is a two-part story on Arthur and Alfred, both whom are prone to a whiskey lullaby. Arthur's part is up and I shall post Alfred's shortly if there are people reading it.  
>PS: The song is "Whiskey Lullaby" by Brad Paisley feat. Allison Krauss. <strong>

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><p><span><strong>Whiskey Lullaby<strong>

**((Arthur's Whiskey Lullaby))**

"_What's wrong with you?!" _

"_Can't you see I'm tryin' to get away from you?!"_

"_Let go, you old man!" _

Arthur clutched the bottle tighter around his fingers, willing the images to disappear from his head for good.

"_You're disgusting, ya know that?"_

"_After all this time, I dunno why I ever agreed to date you."_

"_I made a huge mistake, just by getting together with you."_

A mass of blond hair shook sideways fervently. No, he could not think about it. No, he should not even try to recall that painful night. No, the pain will overtake him once again, destroying his peace of mind and his withered heart.

He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget.

He had to forget, if not...

Without further ado, he took another swing of whiskey from the glass bottle, relishing in the way the amber liquid slid down his throat, leaving a trail of fire behind. When it reached his stomach, a furnace was lit, warming every nook and cranny of his body, chasing the cold memories away.

Whiskey had that effect on him, actually every strong alcoholic drink did, but he had always preferred whiskey. Rum was on his list, but it was too mild for his palette. Vodka too, but he never liked the bitter taste of it. Wine, even when downed the whole bottle, could not gloss over his brain to make him forget. Bourbon, well, it was just too American.

Just too much of **him**.

_'Bloody hell, I'm doing it again.'_ Another swing as he watched the remaining whiskey being drained from inside the glass bottle. _'Stop. Stop it. Stop thinking about him and you'll be fine.'_

He raised an arm over his eyes, blocking out the artificial yellow light which was emitted from a swinging lamp. Here he was. Arthur Kirkland. The so-called literary genius of his time, the inspirational writer whose articles are read in almost every household, the healer of sickness and despair with words, the great Arthur Kirkland.

What was he really?

Was he a writer? Yes, he was. Indeed, he was Britain's most cherished and idolised author of the time, hailed as a god in his element. Was he that popular? Yes, he was. An estimated 6.4 million copies of his new book sold out within an hour. Was he rich? Yes, he was. Supposedly, he is in the top ten list for Britain's richest bachelors. However, he tends to lead a very frugal lifestyle. Was he happy?

…

Of course not.

Arthur blinked open his once sparkling emerald eyes, now dulled dramatically. The yellow lights above him looked distorted through the now empty glass bottle, as if he were living in a fairytale, a place where no one could disturb him and he would live happily ever after.

_'But you never did have a happy ending, did you old chap?'_

Heaving a heavy sigh, he pushed himself off the living room sofa, onto the kitchen where he stocked all his liquor. Clumsily making his way to his intended destination, his slippers shuffled with every step he dragged, Arthur noticed a bleary-eyed man staring back at him.

At first, he wondered whether a thief or a beggar had managed to slip through his front door and was about to shout to catch his neighbours attention, but he realised after a few moments that it was himself. Examining the reflected Arthur in the floor mirror, he noticed the thick and puffy eye bags, the thin arms and legs, the placid skin, the messy hair, the untidy clothes, the hollow cheekbones, the cracked lips. They combined to form a sickly figure of him, much like an imposter to his old self.

Where he once was good-looking enough, with his feathery blond hair, sparkling emerald eyes, lithe figure, milky white skin and full lips, The man staring back at him through the reflection was not him. It was the shell of the him who had died inside.

How many years has it been?

Four? Five?

When was the last time he had seen him? When was the last time he had stopped thinking about him? When was the last time he ever demolished drinking?

Flames burned in his stomach, flames of anger, humiliation, shame, guilt and utter sadness.

The thoughts were buzzing in his head like an angry bee again, they fought and clambered over each other, waiting to be heard, wanting to be acknowledged at the very least.

He cracked open another bottle of whiskey, another bottle of happiness, of forgetfulness. Another bottle, so as to wash all the memories away.

_**He put him out like the burning end of a midnight cigarette.  
><strong>__**He broke his heart; he spent his whole life trying to forget.  
><strong>__**We watched him drink his pain away, a little at a time.  
><strong>__**But he never could get drunk enough to get him off his mind.**_

_**Until the night...**_

Then, there was this one night. He downed another bottle of precious amber liquid, after a whole dozen of them. Why should he care if his liver died? There was nothing for him here anyway.

He had spent the whole day out. To the parks, to the museums, to the zoo, hell even to the circus. Wherever he went, all along the way, he carried a picture in his favourite coat pocket. All the places which he visited today, they each held a special memory. A treasured time which had drifted far away. A place where he could no longer bring back.

He turned the picture he had been carrying over in his hand. It was of a boy, a boy as young as 20. He had a pair of glasses perched upon his sculpted nose, eyes as blue and free as the sky, tanned muscular body, cheesy but innocent grin and that endearing cowlick upon his straw blond hair. He was wearing a plain hoodie with the Star Spangled Banner emblazoned at the front and worn out jeans. The boy held a peace sign whilst the camera clicked, his face framed in it forever.

This boy was Alfred F. Jones, and he was his lover. Key word being 'was'. They broke up years ago, something about Alfred disgusted by Arthur and never wanted to see him again.

It hurt. It hurt more than anything in the world, for more than five years. He carried that pain with him every day he did, bearing it like a cross upon his back. He didn't want this, didn't ask for this. He never wanted to let Alfred go, yet he has went somewhere.

All day he brought the picture of Alfred with him, to the places they usually went together. He wanted it to last, he wanted those days to come back.

But they wouldn't. So he tossed the picture into the fireplace, watching as the flames licked the corners of the picture, watched as it curled in onto itself and was slowly reduced to ashes. A small comfort came to his head and he smiled slightly. After this, after all of this, he would finally be able to let go.

One last glance around his room, before he went away. The sofa was neatly made, the carpeted floors were clean, the whiskey bottles were packed into a plastic bag should anyone find them. On the coffee table were the three things he needed.

He checked the note for spelling errors again, just to make sure. How could a famous author leave a badly written note? The second, he took a swing from, draining the whiskey bottle completely. Again, the burning sensation spread throughout his body, warming his insides. The third he ran his hand over it, feeling its weight in his palm before he arranged a smile on his face, put it to the side of his head and pulled the trigger.

_**He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger.  
><strong>__**And finally drank away his memory.  
><strong>__**Life is short but this time it was bigger,  
><strong>__**Than the strength he had to get up off his knees.**_

_**We found him with his face down in the pillow,  
><strong>__**With a note that said "I'll love him till I die".  
><strong>__**And when we buried him beneath the willow,  
><strong>__**The angels sang a whiskey lullaby.**_

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading, good ladies and gentleman! I hope you have enjoyed this story.<br>Wish to see you on the next chapter! **


	2. Alfred's Whiskey Lullaby

**And here we are with Alfred's installment with the story! Thank you for reading and staying with me!  
>PS: Listening to the song while reading is highly advised.<strong>

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><p><span><strong>Whiskey Lullaby<strong>

**((Alfred's Whiskey Lullaby))**

He never thought it would happen. To be honest, no one did. No one would ever suspect that guy to do something like that, no matter how much of an emotional mess he was.

_'Yeah, suuure. When you're the one who turned him into an emotional mess in the first place.'_

He shook his head violently, making the cowlick upon his head bob up and down. This was not the time to be thinking about it. He was at work, for pete's sake! He couldn't risk messing up on his job or his kind but strict boss Kiku will skin him like a cat.

Flexing his fingers, Alfred went back to his boring office job of checking financial stats. The job he had was tedious, it strained his already bad eyes too much, his back always hurt when he reached home. He wondered why he accepted this job in the first place.

Just then, his smart phone vibrated on his table top, the word 'Awesome Gilbert' flashing across the screen in bright letters. Alfred turned 360 degrees in his chair to make sure his boss was not here before picking up. It seemed that Gilbert, his awesome ex-housemate, wanted to grab a few drinks tonight. Alfred hesitated a moment, looking at his pile of work before him.

After chewing his lip until the skin was almost torn off, he came to decision._ 'Screw it, I'm just gonna go meet Gilbert at the bar tonight.' _He accepted, which was dangerous to his workload, but why should he bother? He could finish work soon enough. He needed a little break now and then, not work his butt off the whole time.

Plus, he needed more alcohol in his system to get rid of those unbidden thoughts. The thoughts of **him**, what he had done to **him**, and how much he had actually **loved him**.

He shook his head wildly, packed his bags as soon as it struck five and dragged himself home to change. He didn't bother to shower, since he was going to smell like smoke and beer anyway. Some jeans, his trusty red converse shoes and a dark blue hoodie. He threw the one with the Star Spangled Banner away when he heard about his death, he didn't need to remember the times they had.

Gilbert was seated comfortably at the bar, nursing a glass of German beer whilst trying to flirt with Elizabeta, the master. Alfred greeted both of them and ordered a whiskey, something he tended to do after his death. Before that, he used to only order bourbon or a quick beer.

They chatted for a while, but Alfred knew Gilbert wouldn't invite him for nothing. And soon enough, the albino was asking how's he been, how was his work, the ropes. He knew where this was going. He knew it pointed to Arthur's death, no matter how much he didn't want to think about it.

So he said he was fine. He was doing well, job's okay, looking for a new girlfriend(he dumped the last one a week ago), having a swell time. Gilbert didn't look convinced, but he left it, for it was a touchy subject to get around.

The trip back home was dull, as were all days of his life now. Driving down the empty roadsides reminded him too much of those nights when he and Arthur used to kiss under lamplight or held hands when they walked. It reminded him of happier times, times which he could no longer rewind and replay them ever again.

He slammed his foot on the brakes harshly, causing the vehicle to lurch forward. In his blind anger, he snatched a hidden bottle of whiskey from the glove compartment and finished off the whole thing in one go.

"_Good morning, love. Would you like some breakfast?"_

"_You're an utter git, you know that?"_

"_Oh my, t-thank you for the wonderful gift...'_

"_Wait! Come back, Alfred! Come back!"_

"_I'm sorry, whatever I did, I'm sorry!"_

He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget.

"_But I've always loved you... I've always loved you, Alfred."_

He had to forget.

The whiskey was just as good as any bourbon. It burned all his feelings and memories away, leaving nothing but a pleasant tipsy numbness in his head, blurring his eyesight further. The golden-brown liquid proved to be his only solace to himself.

He didn't want to remember any of it. He didn't want to remember that rainy morning when he decided to leave Arthur for good. The tears swimming in those brilliant green eyes, the desperation in his actions, the hoarse voice which screamed itself raw. He didn't want to remember, because it hurt too much.

Why did he ever wanted to leave?

Arthur was his love, his life, his everything. He was the shadow to his overwhelming light, he was the angel sent from heaven, he was the best thing that ever happened to him.

So why did he leave?

More bottles were waiting for him at home, stashed under his bed where he knew no one would ever find them. Not that anyone would since no one came over any more. His apartment was a mess, he knew that. As if a tornado had ran through it. But he didn't have the energy to clean up, he didn't have the energy to care.

Nowadays, he preferred to drink himself into sweet oblivion, just so his memories would disappear. Just so he wouldn't feel the guilt eating away at the very core of his soul.

_**The rumours flew, but nobody knew how much he blamed himself.  
>For years and years, he tried to hide the whiskey on his breath.<br>He finally drank his pain away, a little at a time.  
>But he never could get drunk enough to get him off his mind.<strong>_

_**Until the night**_...

Then came the one night. He was drinking as usual, his eyes in front of the television and mind elsewhere. The pretty anchorwoman on screen was announcing something about a typhoon in Asian countries, but he could not find it in himself to even pity the people.

He had hung around the house all day, doing nothing except stare at his belongings in a stupor. He owned no pets, he had not a girlfriend, his half-brother Matthew had all but given up on him. There was hardly anything good on the idiot box, just reruns of CSI and The Simpsons, so he watched that. Emptied bottles of whiskey littered the floor, causing him to nearly slip on a few of them.

To be perfectly honest, it was a day well spent.

Now he sat on his sagging couch, clutching onto a picture more than a decade old. It featured a man in his mid-twenties with feathery blond hair and brilliantly green eyes. His full lips were pulled into a slight smile on his milky-white skin, his cheeks tinted with pink. He had on a sweater vest and slacks which made him look older than he really was, and he had a smug, embarrassed and happy look on his face, making him adorable. This man was his ex-lover, Arthur Kirkland.

Alfred didn't know he was holding his breath as he caressed the still Arthur's cheek, and he didn't know when the hot tears had started to fall down his face. He recalled Francis telling him about Arthur's death, how he had committed suicide and left a note. A simple note confessing his eternal love for him.

The guilty beast was tearing at Alfred's soul again, determined to destroy everything. It had been for the past few years now. At first, he couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe that Arthur would do such a thing. Reality was not kind, showing him an article in the newspaper the very next day about Britain's most famous author who had shot himself, empty whiskey bottles at his side.

That was the day Alfred started to drink heavily, that was the day his heart died.

_'Well, it doesn't matter now.'_

He picked up the sleek black object in his hands, running his fingers over it with the utmost calm. Releasing the safety, he placed the barrel to his temple, feeling the cold metal press upon his skin. A soft "Forgive me" slipped from his lips as he kissed the picture and pulled the trigger.

_**He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger.  
>And finally drank away his memory.<br>Life is short but this time it was bigger,  
>Than the strength he had to get up off his knees.<strong>_

_**We found him with his face down in the pillow,  
>Clinging to his picture for dear life.<br>We laid him next to him beneath the willow,  
>While the angels sang a whiskey lullaby.<strong>_

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><p><strong>That's a wrap. Thank you for reading this story, and I hope you have thoroughly enjoyed it!<br>****Any suggestions can be made by sending a PM or review or on my FB account by my same name.  
><strong>**Sleep tight to this lullaby, until next time. **


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